


Repeat Order

by twobirdsonesong



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Awkward Derek, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3082424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsonesong/pseuds/twobirdsonesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The delivery guy is cute, all long limbs and a smirking mouth as he waits for Derek. Derek stares, unblinking, for too long at the guy's cheekbones and his mess of hair and depth of warmth in his eyes.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em>“Hey! You Derek Hale?” The guy chirps and his voice is not at all what Derek was expecting.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>Derek frowns, wondering how the guy knows his name until he remembers he had to give it with the delivery order.  “Yeah, that’s me.”</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>“Late night munchies, huh?” He asks, positively teasing, and every bit of him is charming and impudent and Derek cannot stop staring.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>He snorts despite himself, digging cash for tip out of his wallet. “Something like that.”</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>“No judgment,” the guy continues and he’s still smirking and Derek should really stop looking at his mouth.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Repeat Order

**Author's Note:**

> The initial idea was taken from codenamecynic's [Tumblr post of AU ideas](http://codenamecynic.tumblr.com/post/101963935827/more-au-ideas-that-the-internet-doesnt-need-part-4): "I work late a lot and your restaurant is the only that delivers at 2 AM AU"

In a city that never sleeps it can be surprisingly hard, and expensive, to get anything delivered after midnight.  Derek figures this out the first time he’s the last person left in the office on a Wednesday night and there’s nothing in the shared kitchen that’s his to eat. And no staff left to send out to pick something up for him.  And Derek doesn’t know Danny well enough to swipe his leftover Thai from the fridge.

 

When Derek pulls up Seamless, everything nearby is closed, which makes no sense at all because there are lights on in the buildings all around him so obviously he’s not the only asshole still working in this town.  But the fact remains he might be shit out of luck.

 

Derek scrolls through the options, looking for anything that might be open – Thai, Chinese, Indian, pizza, he doesn’t care, as long as it’s open and they deliver. He’d even go for a stale bagel at this point, as long as someone could bring it to him so he doesn’t lose any more time working on this damn book.  He’s also pretty sure that if he leaves the office to grab something for himself he won’t come back until tomorrow morning, which is suddenly a lot closer than it was the last time Derek looked at his watch. Or the clock on the wall. Or the time on his computer.

 

It’s his fault for letting the editing of this manuscript get this far behind, prompting him to stay late at the office, but his sisters had been in town for the holidays and there’s only so much work a man can do with an apartment full of family.  And now the clock is ticking on the deadline and his associate is harping him about it like she doesn’t give a shit that his sisters had basically demanded that he show them the town for almost straight two weeks.  She probably doesn’t give a shit – Erica isn’t the kind of woman to care much for other people’s plans or problems.

 

**_The S Family Diner – OPEN NOW_ **

 

Derek stops scrolling and squints at the screen.  The diner has a cute, old-fashioned logo that Derek maybe sort of recognizes but has never actually eaten at.  But it’s open.  He doesn’t even really care what they serve, though he’s happy to see they’ve got a kind of Greek and Mediterranean infused menu. What’s important is that they’re open and they deliver and Derek gets himself a gyro and fries and a goddamn vanilla milkshake before his growling stomach threatens to deafen him.

 

20 minutes later and one ridiculous structural problem that Derek can’t believe made it this far in the manuscript, the night security calls up to let him know his food is downstairs.  They don’t let delivery past the lobby after hours and Derek would be embarrassed by how quickly he leaps from his chair and races for the elevator but he’s too hungry to care.  It’s not like Erica, or anyone else, saw him.

 

Derek footsteps are loud and hurried through the quiet, empty lobby until he gets to the reception desk and then they stop.

 

The delivery guy is cute, all long limbs and a smirking mouth as he waits for Derek. Derek stares, unblinking, for too long at the guy's cheekbones and his mess of hair and depth of warmth in his eyes.

 

“Hey! You Derek Hale?” The guy chirps and his voice is not at all what Derek was expecting.

 

Derek frowns, wondering how the guy knows his name until he remembers he had to give it with the delivery order.  “Yeah, that’s me.”

 

“Late night munchies, huh?” He asks, positively teasing, and every bit of him is charming and impudent and Derek cannot stop staring.

 

He snorts despite himself, digging cash for tip out of his wallet. “Something like that.”

 

“No judgment,” the guy continues and he’s still smirking and Derek should really stop looking at his mouth.

 

“You guys deliver late,” Derek comments, like it’s not obvious, and chides himself for it.  This is why he doesn’t do casual conversation.  This is why he works as much as he does.  He doesn’t do casual anything.

 

The kid shrugs, holding out a piece of paper for Derek to sign before giving him the plastic bag.  “Only until 2am. You just made the cut off. Diner’s open 24 hours though.”

 

“Oh,” Derek says, inanely, and bites the inside of his cheek as a blush starts to heat his ears.

 

The guy’s eyes are warm and curious as they rove Derek’s face and he has no idea what he’s looking for, but a new kind of smile twists his mouth and Derek is certainly not counting the moles on his jaw line.  “Well, I gotta get going.  Enjoy your 4th meal.”

 

Derek blinks.  “What?”

 

The guy turns back.  “You know, the 4th meal.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and that shit you eat in the middle of the night when you should be asleep. 4th meal. Later!”

 

And then he’s gone with a winking smile and a wave and Derek is left standing in the lobby of his office building holding a bag of delicious smelling food while the night security watches with a knowing look in his eyes.

 

***

 

The slush pile is not Derek’s job.  It hasn’t been Derek’s job in _years_ , but the imprint he works for is small – profitable and busy – but small and two of their three interns have been out sick with the flu for four days.

 

“Fucking wash your hands,” Derek had grumbled when the second doctor’s note had come in. “And get a flu shot.” But there’s nothing he can do about it now. He’d rather they stay home anyway and no infect the rest of the office.

 

On the third day Erica, in a voice that brooks no argument, tells him to take care of the mounting pile of query letters before the entire building collapses under the weight of them.  Derek flashes his eyes at her for all of three seconds before he sighs.

 

“You know, technically I’m _your_ boss,” he reminds her for what must be the hundredth time.  And for the hundredth time Erica just raises a perfect eyebrow at him, all red lipstick and strong tilt to her head.

 

“You want to start babysitting the writers?” She asks him, folding her arms across her chest.  “Because if you ever want to crawl out of your den and start taking meetings with the writers I’ll be _happy_ to take over here.”

 

Derek doesn’t quite bare his teeth at her, but it’s a close thing.  “Get out of my office.”

 

“Yes, _sir_ ,” she drawls before turning on her heel and walking away.

 

Derek hates the slush pile and the query letters, not because he doesn’t like finding the true standouts amongst the rest, but because he hates seeing how many people’s work will never even make it to consideration. The balance between talent and market demand is precarious and even if Derek has a knack for spotting the next trends in fiction, even if he has an eye for style and voice, those rare books that leap out are far outnumbered by the ones that never will. He can’t help but think of the dreams he’s crushing – or at least postponing – every time he replies to someone with an automated rejection note.

 

Derek scans and sorts the nearly queries with years of practice.  There are some things their office just won’t be interested in, no matter how well written it is – experimental poetry, mathematics textbooks, a blatant rip-off of _Home Alone_.  The imprint gets up to 200 inquiries a week and there’s a reason why they have three interns helping to keep the volume under control.  But even with practice, the process is time-consuming and wearying.

 

Suddenly it’s 10pm and Derek hasn’t eaten since lunch and he slouches so far down in his overpriced chair that his knees bang into the desk.  Outside sirens race down the streets and Derek’s empty stomach makes itself known.

 

He could go home and make himself something, but he has a stack of queries left to sift through before the night is over and he knows that once he lets himself into his apartment he’ll never get back to work.  And he doesn’t really feel up to dealing with Erica’s annoyance if he doesn’t get these finished, even if she really can’t tell him what to do. When Derek took the job here he didn’t think one of his subordinates would end up running roughshod over him the way Erica sometimes does.  He allows it only because she’s so damn good at her job.

 

At 10pm there are far more restaurants still open and delivering, but Derek ends up staring at the logo for the S Family Diner anyway.  The food was good, he tells himself, but he knows the real draw is the delivery guy.  With his long fingers and ridiculously attractive profile.  Not that he’s likely to get the same guy again. It’s a different day and a different time and even if it _is_ the same guy it doesn’t mean anything at all.   The guy was friendly with him because being friendly means better tips.  It’s nothing more that that and Derek doesn’t care besides.

  
Derek clicks the reorder button before he even considers that he might want to try something else from the diner.

 

The next half hour seems to drag on interminably.  Derek stares at a query for a YA manuscript about a dog with a blog until he goes cross-eyed and has to push away from his desk to stand at the window. It’s winter-dark in New York, as dark as it ever gets.  It snowed two days ago and dirty slush lingers, mucking up the streets despite the salt and sand and plows and Derek only then considers that his food is going to be delivered by some poor guy on a bike.

 

Derek already has his wallet in his hand when the night security calls up to let him know his food has arrived.  He forces himself not to rush out his office and to the elevator the way he did before, even if this time he’s already thinking about the guy with the expressive mouth and pale skin.

 

The delivery guy is leaning over the reception desk, chatting to the security guy. From this distance he’s a surprisingly elegant arc from his long legs to his sinuous back to his arched neck, even in his thick winter coat and boots.

 

Derek keeps his steps slow and measured.  He’s picking up dinner, nothing else.  Nothing more.  He doesn’t want anything more.

 

“Hey dude!” The delivery guy greets, straightening up, and Derek hates that he doesn’t know his name.  “Thought I recognized your name on the order.”

 

“Hi.” Derek’s chest feels oddly tight and he doesn’t know why.

 

“Do you ever work normal hours?” The guy asks with that smirking, aggravating mouth of his. He’s wearing a knit beanie and his cheeks are flushed pink with the cold, or maybe the exertion of the bike ride from the diner to Derek’s office.

 

“Do you?” Derek takes the receipt from him, signing his name quickly and leaving what it probably an ungodly generous tip.

 

The guy tucks the receipt away and hands Derek the bag of food.  “Grad student.  Don’t remember what normal hours are.”

 

“Oh,” Derek replies, an inane as ever, and he seriously wondering if he’s still qualified to be an editor.

 

The guy considers him for a  long moment, the way he did before, and Derek knows he’s blushing despite himself under the scrutiny.  “Well, I gotta get running.  Busy night, what with the snow.  No one wants to leave their cozy apartments.”  The guy zips his jacket up to his chin.

 

“Yeah, uh, sorry about that. I just--”

  
The guy shrugs him off with a smile.  “Dude, don’t worry.  It’s not far to here and besides, I kind of like it.”

 

Before Derek can ask what the hell that means the guy is gone, back out into the cold, and Derek is once again left standing in the lobby, just this side of speechless.

 

***

 

On the weekends, when he can, Derek like to go for long, winding runs in Central Park, though the less traveled paths.  He doesn’t go more often for the simple reason he just doesn’t have the time. Short runs are unsatisfying. It takes time to get his muscles stretched and his heart pumping and his lungs burning the way he wants. He loves the ache and the sweat and the pure satisfaction of it all that comes with pushing his body to the limit. Erica teases him about it, that he likes to work out more than he likes to fuck and Derek has never bothered to correct her, even if it’s not completely true.

 

It’s snowed again and he’s careful, wearing his best shoes with the most traction and dodging the icy patches he knows will take him down.  They lost Jackson in marketing for two weeks last winter to a broken leg after he slipped on the sidewalk.  Of course he’d been wearing ridiculously expensive loafers and Derek had always thought there was something a bit fragile about Jackson.

 

Not the same kind of fragility there is around that delivery guy.  With his fine-boned hands and his sweetly upturned nose and the delicate weight of his eyelashes.  He’s of the same height as Derek and yet he feels smaller, lankier. All limbs and hands and laughing eyes.

 

Derek hates that he feels this way about a complete stranger.  It’s aggravating and distracting, to be so quickly taken with someone who he doesn’t know, doesn’t even have a name for.  His sisters poke at him about dating more even though none of them are married and have no intentions of being so.

 

“You just need someone in your life,” Laura tells him, no matter often he argues the contrary.  He wishes it were true.

 

Derek is almost home, pouring sweat despite the cold, and lost in thought about his sister’s words and the delivery guy’s pink mouth and the hours he puts in at the publishing house.  He does not see the dog racing down the narrow sidewalk until the leash is already tangled around his feet and he’s slipping and falling to the cold ground.

 

***

 

“It’s just a sprain,” Derek sighs into the phone.  “I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.”  He’s stretched out on the couch, left leg propped up by pillows, and ice pack draped over his swollen, tightly wrapped ankle.

 

“You are allowed to take time off for breaking your ass,” Erica tells him and Derek can hear the infuriating smirk in his voice.

 

“I didn’t break my ass.”  It’s the embarrassment more than anything.  Getting tripped by a damn loose dog and spraining his ankle on the way down. Not to mention the burning scrapes on his palms from instinctively trying to stop his fall.  He hopes none of his neighbors saw him; certainly no one came out to help him limp the final feet to his door.

 

“Good thing you can work from home, isn’t it?  In case you need more time for your old man bones to heal.”

 

Derek rubs wearily at his eyebrow.  “Don’t tell Jackson.”

 

“I already did.”

 

“I’m hanging up,” Derek groans.

 

“Do you need crutches or a walker or--”

 

Derek tosses the phone on the coffee table, cutting Erica off without a goodbye.

 

He spends the rest of the morning napping and idly watching TV.  It wouldn’t be so bad, this forced rest, if his ankle wasn’t throbbing, or if he had someone to bring him the bottle of Tylenol from the bathroom.  Or if it was for any reason beyond it hurting too much to walk. But Derek doesn’t have anyone, and he ends up hobbling through his apartment, swearing with every painful step, before collapsing in a disgruntled heap back on the couch.

 

By midday his stomach is growling and Derek has no intention of puttering around his kitchen trying to throw something together.  And he’s certainly not going to go out.  Not like this.  He doesn’t even think he can get his shoe on over his swollen foot.  And he’s not going to call Erica or Jackson to come bring him something.  He’s got too much damn pride for all that.

 

Derek grabs his laptop off the coffee table and pulls up Seamless.  At this point his order history is fucking embarrassing – nothing but a line of deliveries from the S Family Diner.  He’s being ridiculous and he knows it. The delivery guy is just some guy who probably thinks it’s a little creepy that someone keeps ordering the same thing in the middle of the goddamn night.

 

But he’s ordering from home today.  There’s bound to be other people in the city with the same name as him who likes gyros and fries.  And even if the delivery guy noticed his name before it doesn’t mean he will again. It might not even be the same guy. Perhaps Derek’s just gotten lucky before, if luck is having his fries delivered to him by some tall, lanky fellow with distracting hands and an insouciant cant to his shoulders.

 

Derek hits the reorder button with probably a little too much force and tries not to think anymore about it.  He passes the next half hour by deleting emails and rereading the same paragraph of the manuscript he’s supposed to be working on half a dozen times without taking in a single word.

 

When the doorbell finally rings, Derek forces himself not to leap to his feet and instead hobbles slowly to door, cursing that damn dog and its stupid owner under his breath the whole way.

 

And of course it’s him, standing in the hallway of Derek’s apartment building with a thick scarf triple-wrapped around his pale throat and his cheek so pink from the cold outside.

 

“Oh good, it is you,” the guy breathes out, warm eyes going wide, and Derek breathes in without thought.

 

“Uhm.”

 

The guy shifts, seemingly restless.  “I wasn’t sure, you know, because of the address and the normal person time, but I took a chance.  And hurray, it’s you.”

 

“Yeah, I uh, that is--” And still Derek’s tongue is thick as syrup around this guy. It’s awful.  It’s not like he’s trying to say _I think you’re beautiful_.

 

“For a publisher you’re quite the wordsmith,” the guy teases, all cheek and no real bite, but Derek snaps his mouth shut anyway.

 

He watches a flood of emotion pass over the guy’s fine features – embarrassment and contrition and something else Derek can’t put a name too. He’s adorable in his thick winter coat with his too-long eyelashes and effortless charm.  Derek wants to banish him from existence as much as he wants to pull him into his apartment and never let him go.

 

“Sorry,” the guy mutters.  “Don’t always have a filter.”

 

“I’m an editor,” Derek clarifies, like it matters at all.  “And I had a little run in with a wayward leash.” He gestures vaguely down his leg, to where the ankle is just peeking out, and the guy wrinkles his nose in a way that shouldn’t be cute, but is.

  
“Sucks, dude.”

 

“Yeah.” Derek should not be attracted to anyone who says “dude” this much, but he is, and he represses a shiver as he watches the guy’s eyes rake up and down his body.

 

“I like this look though.  Usually you’re all buttoned up in a suit.” It’s just short of leering and Derek only then remembers that he’s wearing sweatpants and an old college t-shirt that probably has at least three holes and obvious pit-stains. He flushes shades of red for more reasons than he can count.

 

Derek must be too slow to reply because the delivery guy suddenly shoves the bag of food at him and Derek has to grab it quickly to keep from dropping it all over the floor.

 

“Oh uh, I hope you’re not allergic to anything,” he mumbles and Derek blinks.

  
“What?”

 

The guy scratches at the back of his head, messing up his hair even more and suddenly awkward in a way he has never been before.  “I uh, I threw a little something extra in there. You always order the same thing so I thought you might like a surprise. But when the address was different I…wasn’t sure.  But it’s you, so…good.”

 

Derek opens up the bag and sure enough there’s another little plastic container nestled against the other boxes.  “Uhm, thank you.  That’s very kind of you.”

 

“It’s nothing,” he replies, dismissively, but Derek can see the pink staining his cheeks than has nothing to do with the winter weather.  It makes his stomach tighten in a way Derek hasn’t felt in far too long.  Because maybe he’s not being so stupid after all.

 

Derek trying to figure out the best way to finally ask this guy for his name and maybe his number, when the guy shuffles on his feet, stepping back from the doorway.

 

“Well, I gotta run.  Plenty of food to pass out to the other clumsy citizens of New York.”

 

He’s two steps away from Derek’s doorway when Derek remembers. “Wait, I forgot your tip.” Derek’s wallet is in the pocket of his pants, which are somewhere in his bedroom. His ankle hurts just thinking about it.

 

The guy shakes his head and his hand.  “Don’t worry about it, dude.  I feel like we’re reaching the point where adding cash to these transactions makes it a little weird.” He winks and the twist of his mouth makes Derek’s chest warm and tight.  “I’ll see you next time.”

 

“Yeah.” Derek certainly hopes so anyway.

 

The guy ambles down the hallway and Derek lingers in the doorway, watching until he gets on the elevator and disappears behind the closing doors.

 

***

 

“All right, so who are you in love with?”

 

Derek spits coffee down his shirt.  “What the fuck?” He gasps, desperately trying to pull his shirt away from his chest.

 

Erica is leaning against the counter in the break room, arms folded across her chest, somehow having snuck up on Derek unawares.  “Who is it?”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”  Derek grabs a few paper towels from the sink counter to blot futilely at his front.  He’s absolutely going to send Erica the bill from the dry cleaners.

 

Erica rolls her eyes.  “Don’t think I haven’t seen all the meal expenses you’ve charged to the same place, Derek. The S Family Diner? How the hell did you even find a place like that?”

 

“Are my meal choices under review now?” Derek snipes.  He’s pretty sure his tie is ruined.

 

“No, but there’s got to be a reason you’ve been spending that much money there and I want to know what it is.”

 

Derek busies himself with refilling his coffee mug, solely to avoid Erica’s all too knowing gaze.  He would never call her a gossip, but she hates thinking someone might be keeping something she deems important from her.  “I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

 

“So there _is_ a reason.”

 

“Erica,” Derek growls, but it only makes her laugh.

 

“Oh come on.  In all the years we’ve been working together you haven’t gone a single date--”

 

“That’s irrelevant.”

 

“--and now suddenly you’re all over this one stupid diner. ”

 

Derek bites back the defense of the restaurant the rises up in him.  The food is phenomenal and more than decently priced and even without his ridiculous crush on the ubiquitous delivery guy he’d still eat there.

 

“They deliver late and they’re good.”

 

Erica makes a noise like she doesn’t believe a goddamn word of it, but turns on her heel and glides out of the break room.  Derek bares his teeth at the back of her head.

 

“I saw that,” she calls back at him and Derek flips her the bird, just because he can.

 

***

 

It’s two weeks before Derek has the chance to order from the diner again. Work has slowed just enough for them to catch up and keep on top of things and Derek’s been getting home early enough to actually make use of the food in his kitchen.

 

He doesn’t miss the delivery guy.  He doesn’t. That’s ridiculous to a level Derek can’t even remotely admit to himself.  But he does think about him, more than he wants to. Derek thinks about him every time he passes through the lobby of his building on the way home, remembering the guy stretched out over the reception desk.  He thinks about him whenever he sees a delivery guy racing past on his bike and wonders if any one of them is the man whose name he still does not know. It’s awful, the tightness that has settled in his chest, the ache that digs deeper the longer Derek goes without seeing this guy.

 

But inevitably the workload piles up and Derek finds himself still behind his desk at 10pm in the middle of the week and pulling up Seamless.

 

Derek stares at the logo of the restaurant, leaning his chin on his fist. He should just do it – he should just suck it up and ask the delivery guy for his name and if he’s busy that weekend.  Just because he hasn’t dated in a while, just because he’s had no interest in it in years, doesn’t mean he’s not interested now.  He is.  He knows he is. He’s been interested in this near stranger since he first saw him. What can it hurt?  Maybe they go out and get coffee and there’s nothing there and Derek goes back to his manuscripts and his long hours and his annoying coworkers.  And then he can stop thinking about it.  He’ll never be able to order from the S Family Diner again, but at least he can be quit of this nonsense before it gets any worse.

 

But when he gets down to the lobby, some guy with dark hair and a crooked smile is waiting for him.  Some guy he’s never seen before.

 

“You Derek Hale?”

 

Derek hates the flood of disappointment that rolls through him, anchoring him to the floor. “You’re not--” He begins to say, the words nearly automatic, but stops himself even as his ears start burning red.

 

“What?” The guy cocks his head.

 

“I mean, it’s just, you’re not the usual delivery guy.” Derek shakes his head, finally getting close enough to sign for his order.  “That’s all.”

 

This kid’s smile it too guileless to be real.  “Who?  Stiles?  He’s sick so I’m filling in for him, even though it’s not really his job to do deliveries.”

 

“People really to get their flu shots,” Derek grumbles and then he looks up from the receipt. “Stiles?”

 

“Yeah.” The guy bobs his head.  “He’s the owner’s kid.  Usually works in the restaurant, but he’s been running a few deliveries the last few months. Don’t know why.”

 

Derek’s heart thuds painfully in his chest as something like unexpected hope spread through him.   It doesn’t have to mean anything.  Maybe the guy just wanted a change of pace, wanted to try something new for a while. It doesn’t have to have anything at all to do with Derek.  It doesn’t.

 

But he remembers the way the guy first looked at him in the lobby of his office in the middle of the night and the way he teased Derek about his sprained ankle with such warmth in his eyes and the he gave Derek an order of Baklava _just because_.  And now, perhaps, the way this guy apparently has been changing his work schedule in order to see Derek.

 

It doesn’t have to mean anything but Derek can’t help but hope that it does.

 

***

 

That Saturday night, Derek is in the middle of ignoring work emails in favor of watching a terrible movie on Netflix when there’s a surprising knock at his door. Derek frowns.  No one had buzzed down at the front so the doorman must have let them in, which means it’s someone they recognized.

 

Derek does not expect it to be the delivery guy – Stiles – standing once again in his hallway, but it is.

 

“Hi,” Stiles says, all shy eyes and a sloping smile and Derek wants to keep him forever.

 

“Hi,” Derek parrots.  “I uh, I didn’t order anything.”  Of course he didn’t, but Derek lost his brain months ago when he first saw Stiles in his lobby.

 

“I know.”

 

Derek swallows.  His stomach is tight and he feels like he just might vibrate out of his skin.  “Oh.”  
  
“Yeah, I uh--” Stiles shrugs, too nonchalantly for it to mean what it’s supposed to, and he runs a hand through his hair.  “I just wanted to see you. You know, outside of bringing you food.”

 

Derek blood is roaring in his ears and he clenches his hands at his sides to keep from reaching out for Stiles.  “Okay.”

 

Stiles shifts, uncertainty suddenly bleeding across his face.  “I’m not actually the delivery guy – I mean, I do it sometimes, but I saw you that first time and I just…unless I’m totally reading this wrong and--”

 

“You’re not,” Derek interrupts, the words dropping from his lips before he can worry about wanting to take them back.  He’s done waiting; he’s done thinking about this.  Stiles just showed up at his apartment for no reason other than to see him; if Derek was unsure before he’s certainly not now.

 

“Oh.” A smile starts to tug at Stiles mouth.

 

“Yeah, I uh.”

 

“It’s not just about the food, is it?” Stiles asks quickly.  He’s stepped closer, almost coming into Derek’s doorway, and Derek wants him inside his home immediately.

 

“No. It’s not,” Derek admits, because there’s no reason not to.  “The food is great--”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“--but that’s not why.”

 

Stiles’ honeyed gaze searches Derek’s face and then he says, “Yes I’ll go out with you.”

 

Derek blinks, frozen.  Stiles’ infuriating mouth is a curved into the most impish, satisfied grin Derek has ever seen. He wants to kiss it away. Maybe he will soon enough.

 

“You were going to ask me, right?” Stiles continues, hope and delight ringing clear in his voice. “Eventually?”

 

Derek nods, thinking about the day he’d meant to ask for Stiles’ name, only to have someone else show up.  “Yeah, I was.”

 

Stiles eyes narrow, like he’s looking for something specific, and then suddenly he’s leaning in and surging up and his mouth is just as impressive pressed against Derek’s as he imagined it would be.  The kiss is achingly sweet and too short, but Derek sighs into it and tells himself that there will be more.  Soon, if he gets his way, and the final soft brush of damp lips against his own tells him he will.

 

Derek steps back from the doorway, licking his lips and making room for Stiles. “Do you want to come inside?”

 

Stiles’ grin is so bright it hurts to look at.  “Fuck yeah.”


End file.
